strange musings of a distracted spunk

So here’s the deal.

We leave for Krabi tomorrow night. We stay on an island for four days (rain shower, bathtub, massages, gym, free wi-fi, a pool that goes into the ocean, etc.) We also will be snorkeling, windsurfing (if the water isn’t too choppy), and other water-based activity, as well as hiking and laying out on beautiful white beaches.

The issue is my skin. Regardless of how much suntan lotion I put on, inevitably, I get burnt somehow - usually in patches. Most recently, I ended up with a stripe from my collarbone to the center of my left breast. How? No idea. I’m also one of those fairest of the fair kinda girls; I’m basically what the Thai folk aspire to with their whitening lotions (think tanning lotions in reverse.)

Today, I’m sporting an awesome collar - front and back - of a sunburn that I got when exploring the ruins of the old capital of Thailand, Ayuthaya, even though I put on tons of SPF 50 suntan lotion (twice!) before we got there. There’s no way I can avoid the sun, but how can I keep from getting burnt to a crisp while snorkeling?

Thailand suggests buying swim clothes, such as board shorts and a surfer shirt but that’s called spending money I don’t have. If I absolutely have to, I will, but I’d MUCH prefer other options. That’s where you all come in. Help!

Ta-da! I am here! And it is…hot. And muggy. And occasionally drippy. Thailand (whom I am visiting and traveling with) said, “The best way to describe it is as if someone took a wet towel and smacked you with it. Repeatedly.” Basically, I just want to take my clothes off all the time. After another fabulous evening, first with my AmeriCorps friends, then with McGee and her man J, I took off for the airport on Thursday morning. 12 hours later, I was in Tokyo. Another 9 hours later (2 hour layover), I was in Bangkok. My observations thus far:

-Watching English movies with subtitles throws me off. Namely, because I’m used to watching films with English subtitles. I kept reading the Japanese subtitles before remembering I don’t read Japanese. It’s amazing how many times I repeated this action before it finally sunk in.

-There was some sort of noodle dish served on the plane. I didn’t pay much attention to what I was eating and the next thing I knew, I was trying not to choke on the wasabi I accidentally ingested. Apple juice is not a good wasabi reliever.

-By the time we got off the plane in Tokyo, I really had to pee. So I went to the restroom. And found a white thing surrounding a hole in the ground. There was slight heart attack-age. But then I found a regular toilet and didn’t have to figure out how to pee over a hole in the ground without splashing everywhere, and balancing a backpack on my back simultaneously. Incidentally, it’s called a Japanese toilet. I much admire Japanese women everywhere who can balance and pee neatly at the same time.

-JAL allows you to keep tabs on where you’re at by providing an in-flight map. It was strange to realize we were flying over the International Date Line. It was zig-zaggy, so I kept waiting for an announcement or some sort of “Whoo! We have just entered tomorrow!” kinda thing, but it never happened. So I waited. And waited. And waited. And eventually, when there was no zig-zag line at the center of the screen, I figured we had entered tomorrow. There was no celebration.

-My method of killing time was to basically say, “And this is how long it took to get to Israel. And…this is how long it took to get to Spain! And…London! Now New York! Now Chicago from San Francisco! Now LA from Oakland!.” This was actually very effective in making me feel better about time.

-Also, JAL? You’re awesome. Putting me in my own row so I could stretch out across all three seats which was actually just the perfect amount of space for all 5′7ish of me was a brilliant idea.

-”Was that your debit card in Thailand this morning?” Always notify the bank when you’re leaving the country.

-I think I may have sprained my big toe on my left foot, and rolled my ankle. This is going to make walking fun.

-Going to the gym less than twelve hours after landing is not always the smartest idea. Often leaves one wanting to throw up and die from sudden jet-lag attack that occurs when your body realizes that you’re on the opposite side of the world and night is day and day is night. However, watching small Thai men bounce around and yell, “Everybody say hey!” with a huge smile on his face during a Body Jam class is infectious. There’s a reason Thailand is called the Land of Smiles.

-Bangkok is a neon city. The cabs are pink, purple, orange and yellow cabs, and when we went to the food court in the mall that the gym Thailand belongs to was in, everything was brightly colored. At that point, I was feeling so sick, it just made me dizzy with how overwhelming it was. He told me to go home before I passed out on a pink display.

-Spirit houses! Everywhere! I keep stopping to look at them and admire the intricacies, while Thailand is like, “Oh. Right. You’ve never seen these before.” *stops and fiddles with his thumbs while I ooh and aah.*

-Speaking of which, it’s…insane how well he’s adapted to being in Bangkok. I wouldn’t have expected a gay Jewish boy from New Jersey to be so acclimated to the area, but he knows exactly where and what he’s doing. It’s kind of admirable, and also strange knowing that someone I grew up with is so…well adjusted to a country so foreign to ours. When we’re in cabs and he gives directions in Thai, it blows me away.

-The tuk-tuks are not meant for tall people. Nor is the subway. I kept hitting my head on the strap you hold to maintain your balance. Those things are slightly painful.

-”Want to go to a ping pong show?” “I love ping pong!” “Um…it’s not the American ping pong.” “What is it?” “Girls shooting things out of their vaginas.”

And that’s a wrap for today. Coming soon on the Thai Adventures of DS and Thailand - Ladyboy shows, the “gayborhood,” three Buddhist temples on a Buddhist holiday, boat rides on the river, Thai beaches, elephant rides, tigers, and more! I still haven’t decided if I want to go to a ping pong show.

Jazz music wafted into the air, slow notes languishing upon one another, dancing on elevation of keys. For the second time in two days, and the second time in the year I’ve been here, I entertained. We sat on my floor, trading stories of doctor horror stories, pending engagement (theirs, not mine) and just enjoying each other’s company, something that hadn’t been done in a long time. For the first time in what feels like years, my ribcage hurt from all the side splitting laughter where there would be that moment of silent comprehension and then as the joke became clear, we would crack up.

The music provided a background to what will definitely be one of my favorite nights in a long time. Why is it that it’s only when one is leaving that the earth conspires to make everything seem beautiful and lovely, after putting one through so much emotional trauma? My apartment glistens with its quirks and charms, and I think of how much I’ll miss the sunlight streaming through the bathroom window, lighting up the bath and making my baths in a clawfoot bathtub ones that I sorely needed. The kitchen with the oven I still have not bothered trying to learn how to use because it’s from the 1940s is a testament to all things old fashioned that I love. Even the construction zone outside my window, where I used to wake up naked and find construction workers leering at me in through the window while I stood in front of my mirror trying to decide what to wear before I noticed them will be missed.

I am ready to say goodbye, to this, to so many things, but I’m not. I want another day. I want a few more days. I want more days of this, of sitting on the floor and laughing, eating grapes, apples, cheesecake, whatever we can find that will help empty out as much as we can before it all gets turned over to McGee. I want more days of sunshine, of meandering down streets with McGee and Skylar Blue and Not Mary and all the other wonderful people I’ve met out here in the past nine months; I got so lucky in being able to meet such amazing people. I want less days of running packages to UPS to be shipped back east, thousands of dollars worth of clothes in a single box. I want more days of actually being able to walk around my room, no longer cluttered by all the furniture that it once held, hiding the narrative that would unravel my story.

It feels empty somehow, and almost too big now with all this space. There are moments when I lay catatonic, unable to do anything because I am so exhausted from the poor sleeping, from the overactive dreams, from the packing, from the lifting, from the moving, from the $400 bill I’m being charged to cancel my cable service, from the medical bills I just received for no reason, for all the money that moving requires, not to think about traveling.

I haven’t even wrapped my mind around the fact that tomorrow’s my last night here, in this apartment, in Berkeley. That Friday morning will see me get on the fourth plane ride in a month, having taken a brief respite this past weekend to stay in one area. That come Friday, my address with the quirky “__24 and a half” will no longer be mine. I’ll be back to a perfect Court, the residence of my parents, where my bills and mail will pile up for a month while the East Coast not-so-eagerly awaits my return.

There won’t be a bar outside my window. There won’t be jazz music wafting into my room, or even marching band music, which was the soundtrack for a conversation I had with GDB several weeks ago over webcam. It’s hard to have a serious conversation when the band outside sounds like it’s about to break into a rousing rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever, made more so by the irony of it being at one of the best places to get beer in town. There won’t even be an odd neon blue phone on my wall anymore - not that it actually works, but I always imagine that one day, it will just start ringing, and on the other end will be the fairy tale life one always imagines one is due.

Why is it that life always pushes us into a crossroads before we’re actually ready for one? It’s so hard to pretend to be strong all the time. Part of the reason I look forward to all this traveling is because there’s no time to think; there’s only time to do.

I will miss this place. I will miss the memories I’ve made here, the laughter I’ve had, the friends I’ve hugged and said hello and goodbye, the hills I walked and the streets I tripped over, the laundromat with the homeless people stripping down in front of me, the Tibetan protesters and the tree huggers, the radical Berkeleyan neighborhood, the walks down as the sun sets upon the Golden Gate Bridge, far off into the distance and the bay gleaming below, the crappy drivers and the awful BART, the bubble baths, the huge library, the high schoolers hanging out on every corner when school lets out, the absurdly long lines in Walgreens at all times of day, the amazing French bistro a few blocks down, the random Victorians only a few blocks away, all the little nooks and crannies that you find on Shattuck Avenue, and more. I will miss Berkeley.

But most of all? I’ll miss those quiet nights, with or without laughter, when I could write, jazz music lilting the air around me, instantaneous in its relaxing effects, as though all it took to soothe the uneasy world was a calming balm of saxophones and guitars.

It’s kind of funny when two of the more significant relationships you’ve had both tell you they’re starting their own blogs and ask for advice.

Both of them know I blog. One encouraged me to enter my writing in a contest his company ran, but refused to read it because he knew some of it was about him. He’s often held that he won’t read anything I write until I’m officially published. I think that was his way of not reading any of the short stories I wrote in college so he could focus more on programming. The other one stumbled upon my blog one day, and only told me about it after I wrote a rather favorable entry about him. It was a bit surprising at first, and I couldn’t decide if I was embarrassed or amused, but then I just decided that it was a part of my life from a long time ago, and we might have differing opinions on how things went down, but ultimately, we did have those shared memories. And obviously, we’re still fond of one another (though he might deign to disagree and instead call me a poppet or some other unwieldy word.) He also instructed that I note that he’s very alluring, sexy, and by all means hot. (His words, not mine.)

I got to thinking though, as I am wont to do, and realized that somehow, between September when I started blogging and now, I’ve sort of amassed a variety of blog friends. Of people that know my true identity and what I look like and more of my day-to-day activities than I reveal on here. Would that betray my call for anonymity to disclose my identity to so many? Thailand and I intend to do a double homecoming in August, at the end of a cross-country road trip, and there have already been offers of couches and floors throughout the country. But with so many people aware of who I am, do I stop becoming Distracted Spunk and start becoming (name?) I almost feel as though DS is a persona I wear, when I want to cull out the deeper thoughts, the unusual rationalities that purvey my mind, though I know in the context of my A.D.D. behavior, most people would have difficulty believing that (name) is also DS.

It was only a few weeks ago where I met someone new and he took one look at me and laughed, citing me as the most distracted person he had ever met. Yet somehow, I feel as though I find a center of focus through this blog, an ability to sit down and ruminate on just one thing and go from there, something I have difficulty doing in real life. I once explained in a job interview that the more stuff you give me to do, the more efficient I am.

And lookit that, I’m getting off track I think. Really, I guess what I was trying to say is that this blog provides an outlet I never realized I needed. What initially started as a practice in writing every day has become a chance to really dig deep, pull out the thoughts that have been swimming around beneath the aorta and underneath my muscles, and renew life into them with a breath of oxygen. When K first mentioned starting his blog, my immediate thought was, do I link to him? That might reveal my anonymity, and there are so many people who would be upset or feel betrayed or surprised by the existence of this blog, of the realization that as lighthearted and cheerful and friendly I may be on the surface, it goes much deeper.

I mentioned my perception of being fluffy to Jack of All Trades. It seems that if there was a word he would never use to describe me, it would be fluffy. I get that I require a brain, really, I do. But I didn’t think I was incapable of being so surface, but then again, I suppose I do hate superficiality. A walking contradiction to last the ages, I am.

Er. New track. Right. So really, I suppose that there’s a reason I started an anonymous blog. I knew inevitably I was going to write about my depression, about my parents’ relationship and animosity, about my sister (which I still can’t muster up the energy to write), about the friendships I’ve lost and the friendships I’ve gained, about the boys I adored and loved, and the boys who hurt me. I never expected this to become what it has, with so many readers whom I’ve grown to adore and look forward to reading each day.

But then I worry about revealing my anonymity. It truly is such a small world. I often wonder what if I’m reading an anonymous blog of someone who is involved with a man who belongs to another, and I’m encouraging her to get involved deeper, only to realize that that man belongs to someone I know. Or someone else I read. How often do our blogging lives cross paths with our real lives and we never know, because we shroud ourselves in anonymity? What if one of my family members found this blog? How unlikely is it that she would find a blog that links to another blog that links to another one that links to me? Would she confront me? Or would she just share it with other family members, until everything I’ve kept so carefully crafted under a wall of “I’m fine, how are you?” spills out like a vase of flowers shattered onto the floor, my protection discarded?

When I started writing, I chose anonymity because it seemed easier. No self-censorship. But it seems in a way, there always will be a sense of “What if?” because let’s face it. The world is a small place, and that includes the world wide web. Inevitably, the real world and blogging is going to collide. K has found me, my old boss has found me, it’s not unlikely that someone else will find me. I don’t mind sharing my blog with close friends, as they would already know much of these thoughts anyway, albeit much more scattered, but it would be strange to find that someone I don’t know as well has been reading my thoughts and learning more about me than I ever have of them.

Perhaps that’s why there’s a sense of safety in putting our lives out there for one another to read, because at the heart of it, we’re all sharing. What does it become when one is just reading, and not sharing? Does anonymity lose its place? Does the power of blogging weaken? I find I’m left with so many questions, and really, all my exes wanted to know was “How did you get started blogging?”

Thank you for validating me. By telling me that I do at 50% what most people do at 100%. For telling me that you’re so confident in my ability to keep up with all the work you assign me, you want to give me more responsibility - that of event planning. Which is incidentally what my dream job, current degree-in-progress, and past experience all involve. Because dammit, I am kickass at getting all the details together and putting events on like nobody’s business. I know now that I needed the job from hell to get to here, to a place of positive reinforcement and actual work.

It might be 3 or 4 AM your time, yet you’ll still talk to me for hours on end. You’re there for me when I need an escape from my own brain, you pick up the phone on a Saturday night when I decide to look for Mrs. Field’s cookies at the local supermarket and fail, and you laugh at all my quirks. Thank you for all that, and for knowing me better than I know myself. Road trip? Yes?

You’ve been around longer than most people. We might be in the same state now, but there’s still quite a distance - and that’s okay. We’ve figured out how to keep our friendship burning bright and strong, when you were ten minutes away, or an ocean away. Also, since our lives are so ridiculously interconnected, you give me hope that if you can make it work, I can make it work. Funny how we always lean on each other, eh?

When I feel particularly crazy, I think of you, and realize how tame I am in comparison. You’re my brother from another mother, and when I need a crazy night out, you’re the man to call. Now come home already!

I’m not quite sure how I got so lucky as to find you in class one day - you sat across from me and laughed at me every time my pen cap flew across the room. Distractions and all, more than a year later, you’re one of my daily confidants. It’s so refreshing to not have to explain things to someone who knows it and has been there already. Whatever did happen to dancing Barbie?

Four years ago, I wanted to kill you for your bipolar nature. Now, I want to hug you for making me laugh when I wanted to chop off my boobs because they hurt and I was in a terribly bad mood. You even offered to marry me without boobs to save others from my “sparkling personality” (as long as I was rich and there was no prenup).

Whoever you are, epic boob girl, you send a ton of traffic my way. So…thanks?

You laughed at me when I told you that I might secretly want to be a wedding planner someday. Because I love details and putting things together and making one hell of an event at the end of it all. And maybe that’s why I’m watching all these wedding shows. Or maybe, it’s just because for the first time in my life, I really want to have a wedding. Thank you for not judging me on either of those, and promising that we’re going to have kick-ass weddings, even when you’ve been feeling all over the place yourself. Also, you got me started with this crazy blog world. I both blame you and will adore you forever.

A year ago, you broke me. It sounds dramatic, but I was at the lowest point of my life. Now? After telling me you never wanted to talk to me again? We talk semi-regularly. You may have been the single-most devastating blow I’ve ever experienced, but I know I will never suffer anything as traumatic and deep as I did with you. Simply, because you kicked me when I was already down. I won’t ever be down there again. Either way, there are no hard feelings. Only hard lessons.

You drive me crazy sometimes with your puns, corny jokes, and self-deprecating humor. But you’re still the big brother I never had. And the only person who tried to save me from what became the biggest lesson I’ve ever learned.

You don’t read this, and I probably won’t ever tell you, only because you get how I feel before I get how I feel. There’s no point in you reading something you already know, and if I ever did tell you this, you probably would be mildly curious and then say, “Yeah, but I know all this. If you want me to read something, I’ll read it for you. But that’s your personal space.” It still bothers me that we’re in this place right now, where future and present collides. But when I feel low, Gwen Stefani sings “I really hope we make it, do you think we’ll make it? We’re running, keep holding my hand, so we don’t get separated,” and I think she knows what she’s talking about. Thank you for making my heart leap when I only wanted to keep it buried under miles of jagged glass. No matter what happens, I won’t live with regret.

No post here today - instead, find me over at Froggy’s. I surprised even myself with some of these responses.

Also - thanks for your horrendous Valentine’s Day stories, all of which made me laugh,  and your encouragement at not letting my heart stay frozen for too long.

I’m jumping on the bandwagon. Delurk, you lurkers! I know there are lots of you out there! And to do so, I’ll raise a question in the spirits of one that was raised over dinner tonight.

What was the worst Valentine’s Day gift you’ve ever received?

If you don’t already know this by now, I am not very much the “Ooh! Relationships! Jewelry! Flowers!” Give me a good book and a bubble bath over a traditional romance any day.

Anyhow. A few years back, while I was still in college, I had started seeing this guy. We had a great first date, where I bought a spectacular pair of earrings that I always get complimented on. He offered to make dinner for our second date, at his apartment in Philly. So I said, “Sure,” as he drove out to me, 45 minutes away, and then drove almost halfway for our first date. As it was Valentine’s Day or thereabouts, he had a huge grin on his face as I walked through the door. Not even a minute later, he proudly handed me a Wheaties Box.

Correction. It was the Wheaties Love Box. Instead of cereal, there were conversation hearts. Instead of nutrition content, there was “Calorie content of romantic and sexual activity.” As in, “One hour of kissing will burn 70+ calories!” Instead of random facts about the heroic and jolly sports figure of the day, there were facts about romance and happy-gooey-lovey-blech.

I have never been good at hiding my emotions. My face always betrays me, every time. But my date? Didn’t seem to get that I was completely aghast by this horrific orange cereal box, full of mush. We proceeded to commence with our date, and blah blah blah, insert other funny story here for another time, before it was time to pack up and head back to my dorm. I tried to accidentally-on-purpose forget the cereal box. My date wouldn’t have it. “DS! Don’t forget your Valentine’s Day present!”

“Oh right! Thanks!” Damnit. Foiled.

I threw it across the passenger seat of my car, annoyed that now I had to find a place for this bizarre present. Not only that, I needed to keep it on hand in case he came to visit me at school again, to show that I truly loved his gift. Gag me with a trick pony. I got back to my dorm, where I was an RA at the time, and made my way up to the third floor. One of my residents saw my cereal box and squealed.

“DS! You’re so lucky! I saw that and I wanted my boyfriend to get that for me but he’s not romantic like that. Your boyfriend must be so sweet!”

I looked at her, her brown eyes shining with excitement. “You want it?”

She looked at me, confused now. “Didn’t you just get that?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. No, that’s okay. It’s so cute! You’ll have so much fun with it!”

Oh yeah. Me and the conversation hearts, we’ll have a grand old time.

Once I got back to my room, I shoved the damn thing under my dresser, accessible only for when my date showed up at my dorm. Is it any wonder I told him I thought we were better off as friends the very next weekend?

And now, your turn! Come out of the woodwork and tell me your most horrendous Valentine’s Day Present story, or just say hi and where you’re from.

Edit: This was meant to be a delurking post. I KNOW you’re out there. Delurk! I’d love to know who my readers are!

This is going to be a long one folks.

Princess Extraordinaire: When and why did you start your blog?

I’ve been a writer, for as long as I can remember. My aunt and uncle have a “book” I wrote about a sleepover at their house when I was six or seven. My writing has taken on various tacks throughout the years, but Ashley introduced me to the blog world in September. I had little going on out here, as I had just moved, and I had been meaning to get back into writing. Through Ashley, I found Clink and read through her entire back story. I was a bit spellbound, and thought, “I think a lot. Maybe it’d be nice to get it out on virtual paper?” I’ve never been a diarist, but I don’t think of my blog as a diary. More of a place to gather together my various thoughts and create a compendium of the interactions and existence that I seem to be doing at the moment. It’s evolved into so much more, and I’m continuously surprised to see how many people read me. Thanks all.

Alexis: Ok, if you could ride a camel through the Sahara or dog sled through the icy wilderness, which would you choose? Also, what’s your favourite thing about being you?

Actually, I’ve been on a camel once. It’s something I will never do again, haha! Something about the way a camel moves and how it’s to and fro, never again. If there are lots of sweaters, jackets, and blankets, I think it would be absolutely awesome to dog sled through the icy wilderness. Just keep the grizzlies away.

As for my favorite thing about me, I think it’s my ability to go with the flow. I think I’ve become so used to change in my life, I almost expect it. At the same time, it’s a curse, because when something good happens, I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I think my sense of humor has been greatly conditioned by my fluidity and spontaneity - I think it’s what appeals to other people about me. There are times where I am caught off-guard, but I don’t require a tremendous amount of time to recalibrate and readjust. It’s what makes me so strong, I think. And I don’t think I would be where I am right now if I weren’t able to just take heed of where I am and go.

Lisa: If you could be anyone else for a day, who would you be and why?

This is going to sound super strange, but I think I’d like to be GDB. To have a better insight into his mind, to understand more of who he is, how his past life experiences have shaped him, and also to get a feel for where he’s at right now. The gray area is a strange place, and I know he has a lot of stress staring him down. I think also - if nothing else, it would improve our relationship if I could understand where he was coming from. There’s a Freaky Friday reinvented concept for you.

Qu33nbee: If you could own any exotic (i.e. no cat or dog that 90% of the population owns) animal, what would it be?

I don’t think I would. I’d feel genuinely bad about taking that animal outside of its native environment to call it mine. However, I have always loved dolphins - there’s something very freeing and playful about them, and I have always identified with them greatly. I wouldn’t object to having a dolphin friend to play with when I feel sad or lonely. This assumes, of course, that I live on a tropical island where the weather is always warm enough to go swimming in the ocean.

Eric left me about 21 questions. I’m picking four, because I thought they were really interesting.

What qualities do you seek in a friend, vs the qualities your friends actually possess?

I demand trustworthiness, a sense of humor, an appreciation for spontaneity, and honesty from my friends. Avocado and I have managed to keep our friendship for so long mainly because we made an agreement in high school that when something bothered us, we would tell one another immediately, rather than letting it build up and being passive aggressive - a rarity for female high school friendships. We have definitely had our moments and many fights, but we always pull through, mainly because we’re able to be so open and honest with each other, sometimes, when we’re not willing to be open and honest with ourselves.

One thing my friends do all understand is that when I am upset or angry, I need time to think and mull over what has just happened. Being aware of who I am, understanding my often contradictory nature, and being able to just go with the flow is what I love about my friends, among their many spectacular qualities. Also, the fact that my friends will call me out on stupid or juvenile behavior that I may engage in is incredibly important to me. They’re not afraid to tell me when I’m being stupid, and I may get defensive, but I’ll realize pretty quickly where they are right and I am wrong. None of my best friends are perfect - but that’s what I love about them. They all fill a different niche.

Tell us all your thoughts on God, and if you would really like to meet [Her]. If so, or not, why?

I believe there’s something out there, I just don’t know what. I don’t think there is just one individual who is controlling my life or who is choosing in advance the options I may choose to take throughout the course of my life. I do think there is karma, and fate, and the sense of being destined to do something, but I think it is rare to find that. I’m reading The Alchemist right now, and so much of what the book says speaks to me. I’m curious to see how the book ends.

Ultimately, we are who we want to be. Different things may lead us to where we are. If there indeed was a god, I’d be very curious to meet with her/him. Simply because I think it’d be fascinating to glean some insight into how he/she operates and what it is exactly she/he has control over. But I am not the sort of girl who prays nightly to a god - I do pray to whatever may be out there when I’m feeling particularly worried or unsure about something that things will work out, because it’s sometimes easier to believe in something, as insubstantial as it may be, than yourself.

Are you “epic”?

Hah. You know, I was having this discussion with GDB last week. We got into a whole long debate about the meaning of life and our various perspectives on religion and philosophy and I was reminded of why I do enjoy his company so much. I think, to the people who know me and live with me and experience me, I am epic to a degree. I am somewhat of an explosive personality, unlike any most people have met. People are drawn to me - I don’t say this to be conceited, but just because it’s true. As a result, I am somewhat hard to forget. Most often, I’ve heard, “I’ve never met anyone like you.” It bugs me to be pigeon-holed into a square that I don’t remotely fit in - GDB tried doing that to me initially and he soon learned that’s where he is very wrong. I think I am epic in regards to my friends and family, but I think once 150 years pass, unless I pull a Louis Pasteur, I won’t be epic then. Just the realities of life.

Damsel in Digress: if you had to pick a different celebrity/anyone famous to answer a list of characteristics (both physical and behaviorial), who would they be?

You get a chance to get back to me on this one, since I’m not sure either of us know what you’re saying here. I think though, if I could talk to any celebrity honestly and openly? It’d be Natalie Portman or Drew Barrymore. I feel they both have so much to say and so much to share, and I think I’d get along with them quite well.

Ashley: Why are redheads so damn fabulous?

Because everyone is used to blondes or brunettes. Also, we’re spitfirey. Or so the stereotype goes. I think it’s just a given - redheads turn heads, especially when they’re cute and pretty like us. We’re automatically ascribed an awesome personality as redheads (which is true in our case), but I think that’s a large part of the appeal. I love being a redhead.

Michelle: if you could travel back in time to any year where would you go, what would you do and why?

I’m not sure I would. I think the past is meant to be the past. If anything, I’d be curious to meet my grandfather in his early twenties. We’re so often called twins, just 50 years apart, I’d love to know what he was like before he gave up on ever making a name for himself to support his family. We’ve had fights where I take the position he used to take when he was younger, and my grandmother tells me it’s like watching her fights with him, but with me in his place and him in her place. It’d be interesting to see if we would get along when we were the same age and if we had the same ideologies and philosophies, or if we are inherently different, as much as we may have in common.

But I don’t think I’d want to go back, simply because I think we’re meant to only go forward and experience what’s meant for us. If it happens to be going back, then that’s one thing, but as I haven’t heard anything about time traveling recently, I think going forward is the most likely option.

Libby: what’s one thing you wish you could change about yourself?

I’m not sure that I would. I think I’m still evolving. I think I’m still learning and that everything happens for a reason. I got to be who I am and where I am based on my actions and past experiences. The one thing that I wanted to change, to become less mechanic, has happened. I would have never experienced anything of the intensity that I did with GDB had I not consciously made the decision to let myself experience more emotion months before I met him. I think it’s all a growing process.

This last month, especially, has been one heck of a trip. There’s a lot of wigglin’ going on right now. My flight finally left at 9:28 PM last night, three and a half hours after scheduled and two minutes before the time frame I predicted ended. We landed at 12:30 AM PST. It took an hour for the luggage to make it to the baggage claim, and I was finally home around 2:00 AM PST. My body is most certainly thrown out of whack with the time change, the traveling, and the little sleep.

I begin my new job tomorrow. This job could quite possibly be the door that everyone speaks of, but I’ve so rarely been able to knock on. Looking back on it, the salary and benefits package is spectacular, especially considering how young I am and inexperienced. I owe my former supervisors and references something big for getting me to this point. I may start looking for a new apartment or consider staying here, should my roommate leave, and make this one bedroom converted a proper one bedroom. There are so many possibilities, it’s a bit overwhelming. I was telling Jack of All Trades the other day that it’s so strange to be where I am, to know that I have the world at my feet, but with none of the original possibilities I wanted. New York was supposed to be my future - it may still be, but in the distance. GDB looked like he would be my future, and again, he may still be, but not currently. Right now, he and I are wiggle-wagglin’ it about, figuring out where we each fit in our new lives and new schedules. In the meantime, I’m moving forward with my life in Berkeley, wondering if it’s false hope to hope that we may be able to work it out again, now that the alien attack is over (for the time being) and he’s resurfacing amidst writing finals and moving into a new apartment in Chicago.

Being home itself was disorienting. I got to see many of the folk I wanted to see, but I didn’t get to see others, some of whom have been among my closest friends since sophomore year in college (the boys and girl I more or less lived with my sophomore year and have stayed close with since then.) I did get to see my city, but I didn’t get to walk around like I wanted because of course, it was the coldest damn day of the year. I was overwhelmed with the lack of interest in my life from my father’s side of the family, who insisted on planning my days, whereas I didn’t get to spend nearly as much time with my mother’s, whom I really wanted to see more. Thankfully, we did have one fantastic dinner involving Roll N’ Roasters - if you’re in Brooklyn or in the city, get a car and take a trip there. I always forget how good it is - it used to be a special treat for my sister and I growing up.

There were many home videos watched, for my sister was in a nostalgic mood. I watched them, and marveled at how many of the actions I performed when I was four, eight, or twelve, I still perform today. Just with more teeth and more meat on my bones. Until I went to college, I was a sack of bones - it’s almost alarming to see how many bones and angles my body was as a child, compared to the curves and not-as-bony my body has evolved into. I still do the funny jumping into the way, or tripping over things, I have the same smile as I did when I was a child, and there were so many random actions, I was surprised that my parents didn’t have me diagnosed with A.D.D. based on just the small things I did in these videos. In short? I was a total ham.

The strangest thing of all is knowing that the next time I return to the East Coast won’t be until July, and that’s for Wing and the lovely Lady of the Review’s wedding. My life is taking a new corner, one that I could have never predicted, having thought I’d be moving back East in May. AmeriCorps is done, as are the food stamps, but it seems that there is so much more out there for me. I feel as though I am more watching my life take place, and I am just going along for the ride, a mere viewer to sit by and think, “Oh wow. Yeah, that’s pretty crazy, huh? I’m glad I’m not her. Oh…but I am.”

I’m caught between wanting to know what happens next and not wanting any change, because it means accepting that what I thought was is in fact not. Thankfully, there is some wiggle room. So, with my new work wardrobe, a pair of smoking black pumps, and not a fucking clue, I step on the ledge of this new direction and hope that the destination reveals itself relatively soon.

Thanks to Froggy, Tina, Ana, and Lisa, I’ve been tagged. However, since I call the shots, here’s how we’re gonna play.

Froggy’s got five. Tina, Lisa, and Ana have seven apiece. That averages to 6 and 2/3 facts that I actually have to write. You might be wondering - how the hell does someone write two-thirds of a fact. No fear, folks. I’ll make it happen.

So, what have we got today?

1. I’m a bit of a curious person. I always ask questions. I don’t usually think before I speak, so whatever I’m thinking comes out and sometimes it’s silly and sometimes it’s thoughtful and mostly it’s a question. I was home over spring break back in March and out with my mom and we were talking, and she said “ds. Do you ever stop asking questions? I think you really do have A.D.D. but you just slipped under the radar.” This could also refer to how I can never sit still and how I drove her crazy as a kid because I ran around all the time and how I walked when I was six months old and more or less never stopped moving.

My dad brought various encyclopedias home for me so instead of asking him questions as a kid, I could look them up on my own. By the time I was seven (maybe earlier, I don’t remember), I had two traditional encyclopedias, plus various subject related encyclopedias, as well as encyclopedias that centered on animals, science, and biology. This may very well be why I rather enjoy doing research. It may also explain why I know so many random things but don’t recall how I learned them in the first place.

2. One of the reasons my mom may have self-diagnosed me with A.D.D. is because the most constructive form of movement for me has always been dance. When I was two and a half - and just to give you a picture - I was a hyperactive ball of energy with bright red curly hair ala Orphan Annie with bright blue eyes - I got a LOT of attention - my parents were somewhere in upstate New York for a weekend. My mom and her best friend stood outside a night club and a minute later, I was gone. After a frantic search, they heard clapping and cheering coming from inside the club. By this point, I had already established a pattern of unpredictability, so they had no qualms about entering a night club to find me.

They headed inside, with my dad, and found me in the middle of a dance floor breakdancing, with people clapping around me. At two and a half. My parents decided it was time to do something constructive with all my energy and put me into dance classes. I danced from then until I graduated college - I danced for my college’s dance company and I only found out a few years ago that I was encouraged to dance professionally, but my parents rejected that in favor of a “normal childhood.” I still love dancing. It’s one of the few forms that allows me to release all my excess energy and come down to a relatively normal level of energy.

The thing that makes it even better? I fall over all the time, except for when I dance. Most people never believe I’m a dancer until they see me dance and then they just shake their heads and say “Only ds…”

3. I have a secret affection for fairy tales and folklore. I may consider going back for a ph. D. in fairy tale and folklore. I should finish my masters’ first. However, my undergraduate thesis (which I did purely for fun - I am THAT big of a nerd), started off about Cinderella and ended with Shahrazad of 1001 Nights fame. I find sex fascinating, especially in literature that dates back to 9th Century A.D. Most people don’t realize how sordid a tale the story of Shahrazad is - it involves adultery, murder, storytelling, and more. Anytime anything related to 1001 Nights comes up, I must read it. Generally, any revisioning of any fairy tale in general is usually a big hit with me.

Also - to emphasize my nerdiness - I enjoyed the research. I enjoyed writing about Foucault and his power theories, as well as calling on the expertise of Jack Zipes, Bruno Bettelheim, Maria Tatar, and more experts in the field of fairy tale and folklore. I may have complained and griped about all the hours spent in the library and the engineering lab (note: for folks still in college, find the computer lab in the engineering building - it’s almost ALWAYS empty and you can have a bunch of friends hang out and edit, play music, order in food, and more while there. That’s what we did) but I’m glad I did it in the long run. 71 pages of kickass research and theories and 100% me.

4. Not telling you my real name. However. I will tell you this. My first name starts with a J. My last name ends in “ill.” Guess how many times I’ve been called Jill. Just guess. It’s so overdone, it’s not even funny. And incidentally. My middle name is one that no one ever guesses because it’s a Hebrew name. Score one for ethnicity!

5. I have a compulsion to make noises sometimes when alone or in the company of others. My mom often yells at me for squeaking. Or meowing. Or chittering. Or quacking. She says “ds. You’re twenty three. Stop with the noises already.” So I don’t make noises in front of her - unless it’s done to antagonize the three cats my parents currently have. However, they’re so used to me mimicking them they don’t even cast a lazy eye at me. It’s sort of the “Oh, is the human at it again? Yes, very nice, you do a good job of sounding like a cat, but I’ve heard it 52363692 times before.” My stepdad just tells me to stop antagonizing the cats.

My dad and my sister on the other hand find it hilarious. Every year, I get a card with some sort of animal noise for my birthday. “Dear ds. *quacking sounds* We found this card. It reminded us of you. Happy birthday!”

Actually. My first date with GDB, I forget why or how, but I think I told him he had to arf. And not just a blase arf. But one that was like, a legitimate puppy sounding arf. Wouldn’t you know, he arfed and it was one of a puppy wanting attention and also knowing that it was super cute. I squealed with delight and clapped my hands like a four year old child and said “Yayyyyy! You arfed! Now do it again!” If I ever reference it now, he gets so embarrassed and says “I can’t believe I even did that for you.” Ah, but he does all these things for me because he liiiiiikkkkeeees me. I can be childish. Yes? Yes.

6. Once, when I was sixteen or seventeen, my parents got a new hardwood floor put down in our kitchen. They went out for the day. M (my high school boyfriend and cheat-meister extraordinaire) came over and we watched a movie. I thought I’d be a nice daughter and do the dishes for my parents while they were gone by running the dishwasher. I put the soap into the little pocket and returned back to the movie. M went into the kitchen a little while later.

“…ds….”

“Yeah?”

“You might want to come in here for a second…”

“Okay?” *walk towards kitchen before realizing that my parents’ brand new hardwood floor was covered in bubbles. One cat stared in horror as bubbles migrated towards the living room, terrified they might eat him alive, while the other swatted at stray bubbles.* “Shit. My parents are going to kill me.”

“ds. This is why, if we ever get married, you will work and I will stay at home, cook, and clean, and if we have kids, I’ll take care of them too. I can’t risk coming home and finding my house burnt down and soaped up simultaneously.” (paraphrasing various discussions and making M much more clever than he actually is. He was quite dumb.)

To this day, there are water stains all over the wood floor in the kitchen. However, my parents have moved since then. My mom has made me swear never to actually run the dishwasher - I can load it up, but not turn it on. This might explain why I prefer washing dishes by hand. Less chance of me flooding my kitchen again.

Poor GDB. I don’t think he knows how domestically uninclined I am. Between the vacuum, the dishwasher, and you haven’t yet heard about the fires or anything else…he’s in for a rude awakening.

And the much promised 2/3 of a fact: I’m falling …

I’m out like a lightning bug.

Okay, I wasn’t going to do this. I swore I wasn’t going to do this.

But I did. D asked me to join a contest on his website for the chance to win 1K based on my writing. He’s always been…somewhat supportive of my writing, and I think he’s trying to make up for all the assholey behavior he did. See here and here if you’re unfamiliar with D.

So…I’m in third right now. But fourth is coming up on my rear. The contest ends at 1 AM EST tonight. The link will not be active tomorrow. If you love me, care for me, or even want to help me possibly win 1K (and pursue a potential writing career seriously), please click here and vote at the bottom of the page. The entries will be familiar. I did this on a whim. Because D asked me to.

If that’s not enough, you get a one-time shot to see my real name and what I look like. Please vote! Also. You’re more than welcome to encourage others to vote for me. The more votes, the better chance I have at staying in the top three to go to the grand prize round.

Update: I just found out that the marketing team screwed up. Apparently, they didn’t think to specify that the contest entries had to have actual content. And not a link to the blogs. As of right now, the first and second place winners only have links to their blogs and no content. D just announced that if I manage to stay in third, there’s a very good possibility that I am winning a thousand dollars. Note: I am soon to be unemployed. A thousand dollars will go a long way. Vote!

Update part 2: Contest over. Details tomorrow.